


my dearest friend, if you don't mind i'd like to join you by your side

by greyhavensking



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Christmas, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Injuries, Pre-Canon, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-War, Slow Burn, off-screen violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28220886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyhavensking/pseuds/greyhavensking
Summary: Two weeks after they lower Sarah Rogers into the ground, Steve moves into Bucky’s apartment.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 12
Kudos: 50





	my dearest friend, if you don't mind i'd like to join you by your side

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is my Stucky Secret Santa gift for winter-soldier-love over on Tumblr, but I wanted to share it here, too. It's... not my best work, but I think the ending at least turned out well, so. There's that. There are a lot of things I wanted to do more with -- Steve's grief over his mother, the backstory to the watch he buys for Bucky, the actual relationship development, but, well. I was kinda on a time crunch with this, and also I felt like if I wrote anymore I'd end up hating the whole thing. So here's my compromise, I guess.

Two weeks after they lower Sarah Rogers into the ground, Steve moves into Bucky’s apartment. He brings only a handful of things with him: the quilt his mother brought with her from Ireland, their family name stitched into the corners; a box of his clothes, most of them second-hand at best; another box of pencils and sticks of charcoal, rattling around with the stack of sketchbooks he nearly burned through the other night in a fit of all-consuming anger. He brings himself, and while he knows he won’t take up much space, knows that Bucky damn near forced him to move in, he can’t help thinking this is it—this is what’s going to snap the thin strand of patience Bucky must be clinging to after all these years of friendship.

He says nothing about it, his fears or his anger, just smiles tightly as Bucky ushers him inside, absently grabbing the top box from Steve’s stack with one hand and brushing snow off Steve’s shoulders with the other. Bucky eyes him critically, without even having the decency to wait until Steve’s back is turned, clearly unhappy with the jacket that’s meant to shield Steve from the worst of the cold. Truthfully Steve can’t blame him for the disdain; the thing’s so threadbare the wind cuts through it like it’s not even there, and the snow that piled up right on the collar had been more than enough to have Steve’s whole body shivering. 

But Bucky doesn’t say anything himself, much better at picking his battles than Steve. He steers Steve into the bedroom and plops the box he’s carrying down next to the second bed. Bed might be too generous a word; it’s only a mattress, a pillow at one end and a scratchy wool blanket folded up at the other. Steve’s not sure where he nabbed the mattress from, though he has a guess, and with Bucky’s innate charm and roguish good looks, it probably wasn’t hard to convince Mrs. O’Malley to part with it, seeing as her only daughter’s gotten married and left the nest and therefore wouldn’t be needing it any longer.

Steve should be grateful, and he  _ is _ , but. 

He hates this. Hates every goddamn second of it, hates that he’s here at all.

The thing is, he and Bucky had talked about it for years, getting an apartment together. Their own bachelor pad, just the two of them, until Bucky found himself a girl he wanted to marry and Steve… found a place of his own. At sixteen, they’d started scraping their pennies together, trying to save what they could so they wouldn’t have to rely on Bucky’s family, which—they  _ would  _ help, Steve’s sure of that, but when George Barnes started talking about moving everyone out to Indiana and Bucky put his foot down about wanting to stay in New York, things got tense in the Barnes household, and subsequently Bucky spent an awful lot more time with Steve than he normally did. And that was saying something, even these days when Bucky, more often than not, was out every weekend taking turns around a dance floor with seemingly every eligible girl in their neighborhood. 

They would help, maybe grudgingly, but they’re family, Bucky’s family, and Steve can’t picture anyone ever turning their back on Bucky completely.

But neither of them had wanted to force the issue, and anyway, they’d thought making it on their own would be better in the long run. 

Steve didn’t want it like this, though. Not when their plans got delayed because Steve’s spent the last year trying to help his mother stay afloat, and then taking care of her as much as he could as she got sicker and sicker and— 

“Steve?”

The concern in Bucky’s voice grates on Steve’s nerves in a way he’s only partially able to ignore, though he tries damn hard not to let any of the mounting frustration show on his face as he turns and gets a good look at the unimpressed expression Bucky is sporting. It’s a look he is achingly familiar with — the arch of Bucky’s brows, the slant of his frown, the beginnings of an angry flush starting high in his cheeks. Steve has never met a person who projects their displeasure quite as well as Bucky does; not even his mother could hold a candle to Bucky Barnes when he looks like he’s one bad call away from wringing Steve’s neck. The worst part, really, is that he  _ knows _ Bucky gets so mad because he worries about Steve. Because he loves him like he loves his family. It leaves so little for Steve to get justifiably angry over, and so when he inevitably rails against Bucky’s kindness he’s left feeling bitter and small and so goddamn ashamed he just wants to beg for forgiveness.

He doesn’t, though. He never does with Bucky. It’s one of the reasons he wonders why the hell Bucky’s stuck around as long as he has.

“Yeah, Buck?” Steve says, and if it comes out through gritted teeth then at least Bucky doesn’t say anything to acknowledge it. Small mercies, and all that.

Bucky’s quiet for a moment, standing just a few feet away from Steve, arms crossed over his chest. His jaw set, in what’s likely a mirror image of Steve himself. After a few tense seconds, he rolls his eyes and softens his stance, sliding his hands into the pockets of his slacks.

“Get your stuff unpacked,” is all he says, then: “Won’t be here for dinner, by the way. I took on extra shifts at the warehouse for the next coupla weeks. Wanna be able to get something nice for Becca and send it along to Indiana. Sorry, pal, but you’re gonna have to fend for yourself for a while, food wise.”

It’s a diversion and Steve is well aware of that. He lets it happen, though, dropping his shoulders from their hunched position and finally setting down the box he’s been clutching to his chest all this time.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, and while he means it he’s sure Bucky’s skeptical, which is — irritatingly fair, given Steve’s history in the kitchen. He ignores the dubious look Bucky gives him, wanting to avoid a real argument tonight if he can help it. “I’ll try not to burn the place down while you’re gone.”

That gets a smile from Bucky, his mouth quirking up at the corners. “That’s about all I can ask of you, Rogers.” He gestures to the door and the room beyond. “Let me know when you’re finished so I can get ready for my shift, yeah?”

Steve nods and Bucky grins a little wider as he steps out, leaving Steve to sort through his meager belongings. Alone, Steve takes a moment to breathe, scrubbing a hand down his face as he carefully lowers himself to sit on the mattress, his knees protesting the movement just as fiercely as his aching spine. This is his life, now — no family aside from Bucky, living under Bucky’s roof because he can’t afford anything by himself. No job, even, since he lost his position at Wellington’s a few weeks back, succumbing to the first cold snap of the season, bedridden and unable to report for any of his shifts at the grocer. 

_ Fuck _ . What Steve wouldn’t give to have things be different, to be living here like they’d planned for the last two years. To not be beholden to Bucky’s good will. To have his mother here, alive and warm and far too forgiving for someone as stubborn as Steve. 

He draws in a shaky breath, pressing his knuckles against his mouth. This is what he has, now, he reminds himself. He has to deal with it, and preferably not take all his frothing self-righteous indignation out on Bucky while he’s at it, because God knows what Steve would do if Bucky finally got sick of him and turned him out on his ass. Not that Bucky’s like that — he wouldn’t force Steve out into the cold even if they hated one another. He’s too damn nice, to nearly everyone; the only people Steve’s ever seen Bucky actively dislike are the assholes who decided they wanted to knock Steve down a peg or two. 

God, his thoughts are all over the place today. Reasonable, considering, but he’d very much prefer to be clear-headed right now. He’s living with Bucky; he has to find a job; and—

Christmas is in three weeks. 

_ Goddammit _ .

___

Steve hatches a plan.

Whether or not it’s any good is debatable, but the important thing is that he wants to give Bucky a good Christmas by any means necessary and he’s damn well committed to it now. 

This is the first year for both of them without their families around, with Bucky’s in Indiana and Steve’s… gone. They’re both alone apart from each other, and the last thing either of them needs is an even more depressing holiday than their usual fare. This gives Steve purpose, too, which is good, seeing as how he’s been spinning his wheels since his mother died and the only result has been an increase in his emotional (furious) outbursts, one of which had an actual vein throbbing in Bucky’s forehead and gave Steve the impression he might be on the receiving end of Bucky’s (well-intentioned) tirades in the near future. It’s not a comforting thought.

What is somewhat comforting is the fact that he’s secured himself a job that will — God willing — last him through the rest of December, if not further into the winter season. Donnelly’s, the tailor down the street from the docks, had recommended Steve and his signwork skills to a few other businesses, which should, on top of the ads he draws up for the paper, pay his half of the rent and let him pick up the grocery tab some weeks. It should also give him some breathing room when it comes to buying Bucky the perfect Christmas gift.

They’ve already had an almost-argument over Christmas. Bucky doesn’t want anything from Steve, except a promise not to get himself beaten to death in a back alley brawl, and maybe a winter where Steve doesn’t catch his would-be death. Bucky wants him  _ alive _ , is how he phrased it, like Steve’s life is something sacred. All lives are sacred, supposedly, but Steve has never been made to feel that way about himself by anyone apart from his mother, so hearing that from Bucky… it shouldn’t frustrate him, and yet. 

Steve desperately wants to prove he can take care of himself. He  _ can _ , he’s proven that a dozen times over throughout his life. And he knows that Bucky knows that, it’s just—

“ _ Thank you, Buck. But I can get by on my own _ .”

“ _ The thing is, you don’t have to. I’m with you until the end of the line, pal _ .”

Steve swallows hard, his hand closing stiffly over the fabric of his jacket in a mock recreation of Bucky squeezing his shoulder in reassurance, his palm warm even through the layers of clothing. The phantom heat threatens to spread in a damning flush through Steve’s cheeks; he yanks his hand away, muttering curses under his breath as he squints down at the drawing he’s been trying to perfect for the last half hour. The flickering candlelight makes for poor visibility, but even so, he has a gnawing suspicion that the suit-clad figure he’s been outlining for the men’s wear catalog cuts an awfully familiar silhouette. No one but him would ever notice, really, and it’s just as well that this ad didn’t call for any fleshed-out faces, because all the dark-haired men would probably have a more than passing resemblance to Bucky Barnes.

_ This  _ is why Steve can’t let himself lean on Bucky any more than he’s done in the past. He’ll slip up — a too-long stare, a lingering touch. Hell, maybe Bucky’ll just be able to read his desires in the shine of his eyes, or however Bucky always seems to know Steve’s thoughts before they’ve even made a full circle around his own skull. But he can’t know this, Steve won’t allow it. Bucky is his best friend — his only real friend. The idea of losing that connection because he couldn’t keep from throwing himself pathetically at Bucky twists his insides into knots. He can feel the hitch in his breathing, the faint nausea crawling up the back of his throat just thinking about the possibility of shattering their friendship into impossible shards.

Steve drops his pencil carelessly, one hand clutching at his mussed hair, the other clamped tight over his mouth as he breathes in sharply through his nose, willing the dread to settle in his stomach. Bucky won’t find out; there’s nothing to worry over, nothing to fear. Bucky won’t find out and Steve will learn to love him quietly, from afar, and then he’ll learn to strangle the jealousy that will come when Bucky finds that special girl he wants to make a family with. Steve will learn how to be Bucky’s best man, the godfather to his children, the uncle who drops by for holidays and pretends he’s not spoiling the kids rotten. 

That’s supposing he lives past thirty, though, and from what the doctors have told him, he’s lucky he’s even made it to eighteen, so. Maybe he won’t have to play pretend all that much longer. Maybe that’s for the best. 

_ Idiot _ . With a sharp shake of his head, Steve fumbles to grab his pencil, his grip bruising so as to hide the trembling of his fingers. He squeezes his eyes shut, counts to ten. Then he gets back to the work, walling up all the pointless stray thoughts in his head and dutifully ignoring them. He can wallow later when he’s not on a deadline. For now, he has a goal to strive for, and it’s enough.

It has to be enough.

___

The morning of the fifteenth dawns bright and cold. The chill seeps through the closed windows, despite Bucky’s attempts at insulating them with newspaper shoved into the cracks, and when Steve wakes up it’s with his entire body protesting the change in the weather. His joints ache, and unbending his spine from the pill bug position he slept in nearly causes him to whimper in pain; he bites back the sound, swallows it down as he fists his hands in the quilt he’s rolled himself into. Bucky’s still asleep — Steve can hear his soft snoring above the chattering of his own teeth — and Steve will be damned if he’s the reason Bucky doesn’t get every extra second of sleep he deserves. 

Getting ready for the day is not a process Steve normally enjoys, and even less so when his breath puffs out of him in too-dense clouds. He fumbles more than once buttoning his shirt, his fingers half numb now that he’s abandoned the relative warmth of his bed, but he grits his teeth and makes do, cursing under his breath and sneaking furtive glances at Bucky to make sure the noise isn’t bothering him. He gets lucky — Bucky sleeps through his ministrations, only turns over once and burrows further into his nest of blankets. Steve can’t help the smile that tugs at his mouth at the sight, and just for a moment he lets himself bask in the seductive warmth of his feelings, the tight knot in his chest dissolving as he watches the thin morning light wash over Bucky’s features. 

Bucky’s… beautiful. It’s a fact of the universe, Steve’s sure, and he’s never met anyone who bothered arguing against it. Bucky certainly knows it, though his vanity is somehow charming — but maybe Steve is just biased. There are few things Bucky’s capable of that really irk Steve, aside from the coddling Bucky seems incapable of fully repressing, no matter how often Steve snaps at him for it. Steve’s a fucking goner, is all; he doesn’t even want to climb out of the hole he’s dug for himself after all these years. What would be the point, anyway? He may not be  _ happy _ , but he — he can be content, loving Bucky.

_ It’s enough. _

Dressed, Steve slips into his ratty coat and gathers up the supplies he’ll need for Mr. McGregor’s storefront sign, as well as a few spare coins so he’ll be able to grab something to eat eventually. Bucky’s always harping on him for not eating enough, but Steve is just as eager to point out what a hypocrite he is, seeing as Bucky’s tried numerous times to foist his scraps on Steve, claiming he ate at work, at the bar, wherever, when they both know he won’t have eaten anything more substantial than Steve the entire day. Another goddam argument where neither of them is willing to compromise, one they repeat every couple days. Steve’s pretty confident he’d be able to recite both their lines perfectly by this point, which is. Unfortunate, really.

He stops to chat with a few of their elderly neighbors on his way out, forcing a smile as they poke their noses into his and Bucky’s private affairs. Mostly they’re curious as to when he and Bucky are going to find a couple of nice girls. Steve laughs and shrugs for himself, says he doesn’t know about Bucky but it can’t be that long until his friend finds that special gal. He’s out often enough, has probably taken out half the neighborhood’s girls by now. Steve wishes that wasn’t the truth, but he’s long since accepted that Bucky just  _ likes  _ dating for the sake of it. Going out dancing, to the picture if he can swing it; Bucky loves people, loves being out in the crowds, and he feeds off their energy. Which makes him Steve’s exact opposite, considering being around people like that exhausts him beyond measure. But that’s Bucky; he says as much to their neighbors, and they nod thoughtfully at him, clearly having seen Bucky’s type before.

“He’s young yet,” Mrs. Bridges says, patting him consolingly on the shoulder. “He’ll get tired of running around soon enough.”

Steve’s dreading that day, but that’s nothing new.

The day doesn’t warm at all as it progresses, and with Steve working outdoors he should have expected the toll it would take on his body. When he gets home that afternoon he’s shivering through three layers of clothes, constantly swiping a sleeve under his nose (his last good handkerchief got soaked through with blood right before he moved in with Bucky and he hasn’t had the time or money to replace it yet). All he wants is to dump his things on the kitchen table and collapse into bed, but of course he’s not allowed that.

He’s not expecting Bucky to be home still; he’s usually out of the apartment by this time, either picking up another shift at the warehouse or spending some quality time with Alice, his latest girlfriend. But when Steve struggles through the door, biting his lip bloody to keep his jaw from rattling with the chattering of his teeth, Bucky is there in the middle of the living room, standing with his back to Steve, hands on his hips, and surveying—

“Is that a bush?” Steve asks, baffled. He’s having trouble processing the stubby bit of greenery now occupying one corner of the room. It’s maybe half Steve’s height and just as spindly, with about a dozen branches, the patchwork needles clinging on desperately to the bark. It looks like a cough might have it toppling over, and with Steve around, that’s more than just a remote possibility.

Bucky swings around to face Steve, beaming so brightly Steve is momentarily stunned stupid. His cheeks are ruddy, pinked up either from the exertion of lugging this thing up the stairs or from the cold, his hair flopping over his forehead without its usual dose of pomade to slick it back. It’s — his hair is  _ curling _ , Steve realizes with no small amount of panic. Bucky’s hair used to be a riot of curls when he was younger, before he decided to smooth it out with product and keep it neat-and-tidy, because  _ that’s what the ladies are into these days, Steve, don’t you know anything? _ Steve had been strangely grateful to see the curls go, if he’s honest; he’s always had the worst urge to run his hands through them, mess them up further, wrap an individual curl around his finger and tug teasingly. With Bucky’s insistence on slicking it back, the urge has died down to manageable levels.

Now, though…

_ Fuck _ .

Oblivious to Steve’s inner turmoil, Bucky gestures expansively at the — it must be a tree. Bucky’s even started decorating it; there are piles of newspapers strewn across the floor, some of them cut and folded into strips, curled into rings and chained together.

“I kept thinking about it,” Bucky says, like that explains anything at all.

“Uh, thinking about what?” Steve asks. He sets down his bag on the couch and starts in on the arduous task of unbuttoning his jacket with trembling fingers. Before he’s done with the first one, though, Bucky sweeps in and deftly undoes the buttons in one go, shucking off the jacket and tossing it over the back of the couch as Steve gapes at him in a combination of confused arousal and banked rage. What the  _ hell _ —

“Keep up, Rogers!” Bucky rolls his eyes as he turns back to the tree. “I’m talkin’ ‘bout  _ Christmas _ , buddy. Christmas! It’s in ten days and we might as well have forgotten about it.”

“How could we’ve forgotten? The reason you’re exhausted all the time is ‘cause of those presents you’re slavin’ away for. Pretty sure you’re thinking about Christmas more than anyone else in Brooklyn.”

Bucky waves a hand dismissively. “Not the point and you know it, asshole. Ten days till fuckin’ Christmas and we haven’t done anything to brighten the place up.” He ducks down to grab one of the paper chains he’s started on, shaking it pointedly at Steve. “Get to decorating, pal, the tree ain’t gonna get gussied up by itself.”

Steve is still, reluctantly, stuck on Bucky taking off his jacket for him, and so he’s a little slower on the uptake than he’d like to admit. He glances around the apartment, taking in the subtle changes: two socks (carefully darned) tacked to the wall beside the tree; the furniture has been rearranged so that the light from the one street-facing window cuts an unimpeded strip across the floor; a handful of assorted trinkets laid out on the table that Bucky must be intending for the tree. There are a few bells, ribbons, a half dozen glass balls, and Steve—

Steve recognizes them from the years he spent visiting the Barnes family on Christmas morning. These are Winnifred’s ornaments, or some of them, at least. Had she left them behind for Bucky to put on his own tree? Or had he suddenly decided he  _ wanted  _ a tree and sent her a letter asking to send a selection back to Brooklyn? Steve can’t remember Bucky mentioning them before when he first moved in, and Steve’s gotten to know the place well enough to say he would’ve seen them before now if they’d been here. 

He has to wonder what the catalyst was. Bucky likes Christmas, always has, but he doesn’t normally go crazy for it the way Becca does. Steve hadn’t realized this had been eating at him, the bareness of the apartment, and while he could blame on them always missing each other — Steve out to work early and Bucky gone before he’s returned from his jobs — he doesn’t think he would have ignored any signs from Bucky that he was unhappy with the current state of affairs. Something must have changed, but for the life of him he can’t imagine what it was.

Distracted as he is, Steve doesn’t notice the paper chain Bucky’s hawking at him until it smacks him in the face. Sputtering in surprise, he claws the chain away from him and glares at Bucky, who’s since doubled over in a fit of laughter.

“Shoulda seen your face,” he gasps out, hand over his heart and the other braced against the couch arm to support himself. “Christ, you’re a thousand miles away over there, Rogers. You gonna do your part or not?”

Steve blinks down at the chain in his hands, then shakes off his thoughts and starts towards the tree. “Should be lettin’ me do the whole thing,” he grumbles, knocking his shoulder against Bucky’s once he’s close enough. “You ain’t got an artistic bone in your body, Barnes. No eye for details.”

“That’s what I got you for,” Bucky retorts, grinning. He knocks Steve back, then snatches up another strand of paper chains. “Alright, you’re the boss. What’re we doing first, then?”

Steve takes a moment to consider, sizing up the tree and their supplies. He can craft them an angel for the tree topper, he figures; make it out of the leftover paper and at least paint the wings and the face. This won’t be anything like the tidy tree his mother kept when they could afford it; they sold off the hand-made ornaments she’d brought over from Ireland years ago, apart from the angel she’d insisted on putting out somewhere even they didn’t have a tree. He couldn’t bear to hold onto it after she— He didn’t keep it, sold it off with the rest of her things. But he remembers what it looked like, the shape of it, the details — enough to make a passable paper copy. Bucky will appreciate it, anyway, and that’s what matters right now.

“Paper first,” he decides. He doesn’t even have to stretch in order to wind the first chain fully around the top of the tree. “Then we’ll see about the bells and all. Sound good?”

“Sounds perfect, Steve.”

___

The plan is, against all odds, coming together.

Steve and Bucky haven’t seen much of each other this past week, what with it being so close to Christmas and work being so busy; Steve’s gotten asked to help with a few last-minute Christmas-themed displays, and it’s kept him out of the apartment an extra few hours a day. He’s lucked out this season, as well, considering he only caught the one cold and it only set him back a day or two in wages. His everyday aches have been worse, but not debilitating like they might usually be. He’ll probably be playing catch up with it all come January, though. 

But he just finished his last job and he can say for certain it’s all been worth it.

“Merry Christmas!” Steve calls over his shoulder as he shuffles his way out of the pawn shop and onto the mostly empty street. The owner responds with a lackluster farewell of his own, though Steve hardly cares; for once he’s in high spirits, coasting on a lightness he hasn’t felt since he was small and it felt like all of his problems could be swept away by his mother’s loving embrace. It took weeks of scrimping and saving, weeks of staining nearly every shirt and pair of pants he has with every color of pain imaginable, weeks of the cold wind biting through his clothes and leaving him perpetually red-faced with bloody chapped lips and teary eyes — but he found the perfect gift for Bucky.

Bucky loves every last member of the Barnes family, but he always had a bond with Grandpa Barnes that outmatched nearly all other familial relations. Grandpa Barnes taught him how to ride a bike while his dad was hard at work; he coached Bucky in boxing for most of his childhood, cheered him on in his early teens while the rest of the family looked on in mild disapproval. Grandpa Barnes told wicked and fantastical stories for Bucky and Steve both, scaring them shitless as kids but sending them into hysterical laughter in the next breath. And one of the things Bucky loved most about his grandpa’s visits was the pocket watch he let Bucky tinker with whenever he felt like it, spilling its innards out on the kitchen table, calmly talking him through the process of fixing it and ensuring it kept impeccable time. 

The watch went to one of Bucky’s uncles when Grandpa Barnes finally passed five years ago, and while Bucky never let on with his folks, Steve knew how disappointed he was that he’d never inherit it. Steve can’t offer him the actual family heirloom, but he’s gotten as close as he could with the watch he just bought from the pawnshop. 

Steve wraps his fingers snuggly around the watch in his coat pocket, thumbing over the gold casing until it’s warmed to body temperature in his grip. With his free hand he turns up the collar of his jacket, then hunkers down against the wind as he treads the familiar path back home. It started snowing again earlier and it’s probably the only reason Steve was let off in time to pick up the watch in the first place; it’s Christmas Eve and he would rather have been home the entire day, but that’s not a luxury he’s ever known and he hadn’t expected this year to be any different, despite the faint feeling that it should have been. He doesn’t mind the long hours, really, they’re just hard on his back, and his cramped hands and aching fingers always smart for hours afterwards. 

Worth it, though. Everything was absolutely worth it. He can already picture the blinding smile on Bucky’s face when he reaches into that stupidly endearing darned sock and pulls out the watch. An answering smile blooms across Steve’s face just thinking about it. He’s never been able to treat Bucky like this before; it’s always been the other way around, when Bucky had his allowance and then his steady jobs, and Steve… well, Steve didn’t have either of those for a long time. For most of their friendship. And yet Bucky’s never been anything but kind and understanding (with a decent helping of self-righteousness, too, when it suits him). If Steve could’ve done more to ease Bucky’s burdens he would have, without hesitation. This will have to do, though, at least for now.

Most people are at home tonight, and those that are roaming the streets are likely on their way back from work. It means Steve doesn’t have to deal with the usual shoulder-knocking as he hurries down the sidewalk, watching his feet to make sure he doesn’t hit an unexpected patch of ice and go ass-over-tea-kettle into the nearest brick wall. That would just be his luck, make it all the way to Christmas Eve without breaking any bones or blacking any eyes, and then wind up in the hospital because he fucking wasn’t watching where he was going. A Steve Rogers Christmas Miracle, wherein everything is the exact opposite of an actual miracle and Bucky suffers as a result.

Suppose that would be a Christmas Curse, all things considered. That sounds more apt anyway.

He’s a block away from the apartment when he hears a high-pitched shriek that abruptly cuts off, and Steve realizes that the Steve Rogers Christmas Curse is, in reality, just his inability to look the other way when he sees a wrong that needs to be righted.

Hopefully Bucky will understand that. Or forgive him, if nothing else.

Steeling himself, Steve draws in a deep breath, the chill bright and burning in his lungs, and then marches towards the offending alleyway, fists already clenched and ready to swing.

___

He makes it home alive. That counts for something, he thinks; what, exactly, he couldn’t say, but  _ something _ . 

Bucky isn’t in the living room this time when he stumbles inside, one arm wrapped tight around his ribs (bruised instead of broken, for once), his other hand held under his dripping nose. He left a trail of blood on his way home, pinpricks of red dotting the fresh-fallen snow; the alley he got his ass kicked in no doubt looks like the scene of a murder, though, and he dreads the idea of anyone who may wander in there unawares. Head wounds always bleed so damn much, and Steve got himself clocked in the nose  _ again _ . He doesn’t even want to ask Bucky to reset it, it’s crooked anyway so who cares what state it ends up in after this?

_ Fuck. Bucky _ .

Steve has a moment of abject terror as he frantically pats his pockets, half ripping them from the lining of his jacket in his haste. His raw knuckles protest the movement but he doesn’t spare them a thought, consumed as he is by the fact that  _ his pockets are completely empty _ .

There’s a vague, hazy memory of right after he hit the ground for the last time. The woman had fled while Steve distracted the two assholes harassing her by literally throwing himself at them, so it just Steve alone with the men, Steve sprawled over the damp pavement, blinking through the tears in his eyes, trying to breathe without his entire chest lighting up in agony. The pain had swamped him for a few minutes, demanding all of his attention and leaving none for awareness of his surroundings, but he thinks — he thinks one of the men had suggested rooting through his pockets, find something that would make up for the  _ fun time  _ they’d lost out on, and—

They stole the watch.

“No,” Steve breathes out, his voice catching in his throat. “No, no, no, this isn’t happening. This isn’t—”

“Steve? You finally home? Was thinking about sending out a search party if you took any longer. It’s really coming down out there and the last thing I need is you…”

Bucky appears in the doorway to the bedroom, and Steve knows he must look out of his fucking mind, his wild eyes framed by twin bruises, his face a mess of blood, nose clearly broken. His clothes torn and dirtied, his hair no doubt matted down with snow and grime from the alley. Bucky tugs down the undershirt he’d been in the process of pulling on and just. Looks at him. Blinking slowly, his eyes gradually widening the more of Steve he takes in. The broken skin of his knuckles, the gash across his collar bone, visible with his shirt ripped open at the neck, the buttons lost somewhere in the shadows of that fucking alley. 

“Buck,” Steve says, then stops, because what can he possibly say? His white knight complex got the better of him again? He managed to dash Bucky’s one hope for the holidays, that Steve wouldn’t nearly get himself killed in a literal back alley brawl? That he doesn’t even have anything to show for it because the gift he’d worked himself half to death over got nicked by the assholes who might’ve done him in?

Bucky seems to sense that Steve doesn’t have an explanation for himself. His shoulders draw back as his brow furrows, his hands raking roughly through his freshly-washed hair and then dropping onto his hips.

“Bathroom,” Bucky orders, jerking his chin at the door to Steve’s left. “Now, Rogers. Get a fuckin’ move on.”

Steve opens his mouth to argue —  _ I’ve got a bigger problem than a split lip  _ — but bites his tongue at the last second and stiffly turns to follow Bucky’s demand. It’s the least he can do, right? He’s ruined Christmas Eve, he’ll be lucky if Bucky deigns to speak to him at all in the next few days.

Steve sits himself on the overturned tin tub gingerly, mindful of his ribs and the stretch of abused skin. Bucky joins him just as he’s divesting himself of his jacket and shirt (he’ll add it to the rag pile in the morning, seeing as it’s not worth salvaging with the blood stains and all), armed with their meager medical supplies tucked under his arm and a towel thrown over his shoulder. 

Clad in only his undershirt and his threadbare pants, Steve finds himself shivering in the slight chill of the bathroom, his skin pebbling with gooseflesh. Somehow it’s worse with Bucky’s intense eyes on him, flickering over him from top to bottom, lingering on each and every injury. Eventually, he lets out a near-silent sigh and crouches down so he’s eye-level with Steve’s sternum. He reaches for the towel, damp from the kitchen sink, and passes it gently underneath Steve’s nose, wiping away the gore.

“The fuck happened, Steve?” Bucky asks. Quiet but firm, brooking no argument. It’s in Steve’s nature to be contrary, but he swallows down the sarcastic shit-heel response on the tip of his tongue and instead takes a moment to collect his thoughts. He can’t look at Bucky when he’s this close, so his gaze wanders over the bathroom instead, flitting from the mirror (cracked in the upper left-hand corner but still serviceable) to the spiderweb of water stains right above the door.

“I was on my way back from work,” Steve says. “Almost made it the whole way without incident. There was just… I heard this woman scream—”

Bucky groans but doesn’t pause in his ministrations. He grips Steve’s chin lightly, urging him to tip his head back so he can swipe the towel down the length of his throat. Steve reflexively swallows, squeezing his eyes shut against the too-warm sensation of Bucky’s hands on him. Bucky doesn’t notice, or if he does he says nothing about it.

“I couldn’t  _ not  _ do something, Buck, you know that!”

“Yeah, Steve, I fuckin’ know that all right. It just ain’t who you are, and that was a helluva lesson for me to learn when I met you.” The words are sharp but Bucky’s tone is flat, controlled. Steve can’t make out the expression on his face, either; it’s not anger or disappointment, but it’s far from happy. “You’re insane, you know that? Fuckin’ bonkers. How many guys was it this time?”

“...two,” Steve admits with a wince.

Bucky hisses out a breath, shaking his head. “Insane,” he repeats, and the next swipe of the towel is a little harsher than intended, because the second Steve flinches from the contact Bucky murmurs an apology, smoothing over the hurt with his thumb, which is  _ too much _ and not nearly enough. 

Bucky sets the towel aside once Steve is as clean as he is going to get and cracks open their pieced-together medkit, withdrawing the iodine along with a needle and thread. That means Steve needs stitches. Shit. His only real cut is the one on his collarbone but he hadn’t thought it was deep enough to warrant that. He’s been wrong before, though, and Bucky has patched him up enough times he’s practically an expert. He learned from the best, after all.

Steve wonders, briefly, what his mother would say to him right now. She wouldn’t be mad, wouldn’t yell or threaten to tan his hide the way other parents might; no, she’d level him with this  _ look _ of such concentrated disappointment that he’d just about shrivel up and die on the spot. There are few things in this world that could cow Steve Rogers, but his mother’s disappointment had been one of them, the most potent of them, really.

Maybe it’s just as well he can’t read Bucky’s expression right now. He picked up more than just a steady hand from Sarah Rogers.

It’s quiet as Bucky works on setting him to rights. Some things Steve is just going to have to deal with — his ribs, the split lip, the black eyes — but he’s had plenty of practice in putting the pain on the back burner and going about his life as well as he can. Bucky stitches up his collarbone as well as a cut above his right eyebrow he hadn’t even noticed; he does set Steve’s broken nose, despite Steve’s insistence that he shouldn’t bother; he dabs iodine over his various scrapes, the worst of them being the ones over his knuckles. He must have clipped one of the guys in the mouth and cut his skin on a tooth, but other than that it’s nothing too out of the ordinary, doesn’t take all that long for Bucky to square away. He’s had plenty of practice, too.

When he’s finished, Bucky packs everything back into their kit and tosses the stained towel onto the floor by the tub, then heaves himself to his feet. He offers a hand to Steve, and Steve only hesitates for a heartbeat before taking it and letting Bucky tug him upright. Bucky doesn’t let go of him once he’s standing, though; he tightens his grip on Steve’s hand, and they’re standing so close Steve can just about feel the movement of Bucky’s chest as he breathes. His heart stutters against his aching ribs as he blinks rapidly, his gaze skittering around the bathroom until he’s forced to meet Bucky’s eyes.

“What else?” Bucky asks quietly, and the words are warm against Steve’s face, even with the rush of blood to his cheeks.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “ _ What else _ , Rogers? You’re quieter than usual. Won’t even look at me. That’s not like you. Where’s all that righteous fury, huh? What’s got you all burned out? It’s not from the fight and we both know it.”

“I—” Steve’s tongue is suddenly too thick in his mouth. Bucky is right that there’s something else, but. Steve doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t want to admit he failed in the one damn thing he wanted to do for Bucky. But Bucky is still looking at him, holding his gaze captive, and if talking gets him to take a step back then Steve will do it, if only for the sake of his poor heart. “I, uh. I got you something. A gift.”

“I thought we agreed we didn’t need—’

“Doesn’t matter anymore,” Steve cuts in bitterly, gritting his teeth. “They stole it offa me when they were done beating the shit outta me. I just…” He pauses, glancing away before meeting Bucky’s eyes again. “I wanted to do something nice for you, to say  _ thank you  _ for, Christ, for everything you’ve done for me after… after Ma. Had a plan and everything. I found this watch at a pawn shop that looked a lot like your grandpa’s, thought it’d be a nice surprise if I stuffed it into your stocking. But like I said, it doesn’t matter anymore. It’s gone.”

“Ah, fuck. Steve—”

“Leave it, Buck,” Steve grumbles, jerking free of Bucky’s hold and snatching his shirt and jacket from the floor. “Just wanted to do this  _ one fucking thing  _ for you, make this Christmas nice since it’s your first without your family. Can’t believe I thought I’d pull it off, was fuckin’ stupid of me to even try.”

Bucky grabs his shoulder just as he’s stalking across the living room, jerking him to a stop and twisting him around again. Steve fights him at first, just wanting to go to bed and forget this bullshit ever happened, but Bucky is stronger than him on a good day and Steve is  _ tired _ . He gives in eventually, shoulders slumping, hands limp at his sides. Everything stings, even his eyes;  _ fuck  _ he doesn’t want to cry right now.

“You are stupid.”

“Gee, thanks, Buck.”

“Fuck, Steve, you know what I mean. You’re ten kinds of stupid, always have been, but you’re—you’re  _ good _ , Steve. The best guy I know. You do things for the right reasons, always, and as much as you make me wanna scream with how reckless you are, I admire the hell outta you for it. You know that, right?”

Steve frowns. “You’re not gonna chew me out?”

“Later, probably, but not right now. Now, I…” Bucky takes a deep breath; Steve is helplessly transfixed by the rise and fall of his chest, the rapid beat of his pulse he can feel with Bucky’s bare wrist against his own skin. “We’re both stupid.”

“Not gonna argue with you there, pal.”

Ignoring him, Bucky slips his hand down to wrap around Steve’s wrist and leads him over to the kitchen table, which Steve had completely overlooked when he first walked in. He has to do a double take when he sees the spread of food laid out on it — more than they’ve seen all month, it looks like. Meat and potatoes, gravy, the kind of greens Steve rarely sees past October. And pie. An honest to God pie — pecan, by the smell of it, though Steve doesn’t exactly trust his nose right now — and Steve can’t imagine where it all came from. He looks helplessly back at Bucky, his brows raised.

Bucky smiles sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I think we had the same thought. About Christmas, I mean. I figured you could use some cheering up this year, so. The tree and all, and dinner… all those shifts I took at the warehouse, they weren’t just so I could send something pretty to Becca. I wanted to give you a good Christmas, Steve. I wanted… I wanted to see you smile, y’know?”

Steve’s mouth drops open. Bucky… did all this for him? 

“And you know what?” Bucky continues once it’s clear Steve doesn’t know to respond. “The worst has already happened tonight, so I’m just gonna go for broke. Steve, you’re fucking insufferable, but I wouldn’t have you any other way, so just — c’mere for a sec, would ya?”

Steve goes, because he can’t think of a reason not to. He’s prepared for Bucky to hug him, to ruffle his hair, squeeze his shoulder — the normal affection that’s so easy between the two of them. What he isn’t — could never have been — prepared for is the press of Bucky’s mouth against his own.

Steve goes rigid at the sensation, unable to move, to think, to  _ breathe _ . It only lasts for a moment, and then Bucky is pulling back, his hands sliding gently over Steve’s shoulders, warm and grounding. Bucky’s mouth — his  _ mouth _ , Jesus Christ — quirks up at the corners in his signature grin.

“There’s that smile I was waitin’ for,” he says, and it’s so purely fond that Steve feels something crack right down the middle of his chest, flooding him with heat and light and  _ love _ .

Damn his split lip and bruised everything, Steve lifts himself up on his toes and grabs Bucky by the collar of his shirt, yanking back down into a bruising kiss. Bucky laughs into it, just as giddy as Steve, and then he’s dragging Steve against him, knee to chest, no space between them except when they turn their heads for air before diving right back into the kiss.

“Since when?” Steve gasps against Bucky’s mouth, unwilling to move away further than that even though he’s desperate for the answer.

Bucky’s hands flex around his hips, digging in with the kind of force Steve  _ adores _ . “Don’t know if there’s ever been a time I wasn’t at least half in love with you,” he says, matter of fact, no hesitation.

“Me too,” Steve murmurs, closing his eyes. He’s crying, he must be, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Me too. But, all the those girls—”

“I love you, Steve” — a thrill shoots through Steve like an electric shock at the words, leaving him tingling pleasantly all over — “but you’re… so dense. Just so incredibly dense. I was never sure you felt the same way with how goddamn prickly you are, and besides that, my dad…” He shakes his head sharply, cutting the thought short, though Steve can guess what might’ve come next. “It was easier not to have people asking the wrong kinds of questions, okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes, “yeah, okay, I understand.” Another pause. “Love you, Bucky.”

“Love you too, pal. Whaddya say we eat something before heading to bed? We can pack away whatever we don’t eat and have it for breakfast or something, yeah?”

“I’d like that, Buck.”

Bucky smiles, kisses him again, just a quick peck, before taking his hand. “Then let’s eat.”

___

The next morning, Steve rolls over in bed —  _ their bed  _ — and finally seizes on the urge to bury his fingers in Bucky’s thick curls. Bucky’s not fully awake, but he pushes into the touch nonetheless, like a cat almost. He’s wrapped around Steve like a damn octopus, limbs tangling with limbs, his whole body a delicious line of warmth against Steve’s.

It’s perfect. More than, really, it’s — it’s everything.

“Merry Christmas, Bucky.”

  
  
  
  



End file.
